Patience
by Kitt SummerIsle
Summary: Prowl is the Lord of Praxus and terribly busy. He feels it is entirely inappropriate to fantasise about certain beautiful gladiators... but others around him love to meddle.


**I.**

Prowl couldn't help but stare, the datapad in his servo all but forgotten. The lines of that powerful frame, the obnoxious, yet optic-catching colour as he twisted and turned and hit and kicked with brutal efficiency until his opponent was down and out. The red blob beside him, he never paid any attention to. It was in the background. The golden mech was in the center, the focus of the matches. And his attention.

He switched off the vidscreen when the match ended. He needed to work, prepare for the address at the Lord Prime's court, represent Praxus properly as its Lord should. He didn't have time for lowly gladiators, no matter how efficient and appealing they were. He didn't have time for the heat pooling under his panel at the sight and it was wholly improper anyhow.

He managed to lose himself in the legal notices he was going to bring in front of the Lord Prime and his government. Praxus needed better border checks, for they couldn't afford to be inundated with other frame-types, diluting the oldest family lines that existed on the whole of Cybertron. They kept the noble families pure by force of his decrees, but the merchant class and the military was hopeless without stricter restrictions. The Prime must understand this, it was imperative that…

Prowl lifted his helm at the knocking, brow already shadowing with irritation. He had told every mech in the household not to disturb him until he was ready to depart the next orn. There were still servants who didn't know how seriously he took work? But he couldn't ignore it, not when it might be something unexpected, something serious.

"Enter."

"M-my Lord…"

"What?"

"M-my Lord Prowl… I apologize… the… it's Lord Smokescreen!"

Prowl pursed thin lipplates together. His cousin certainly had enough clout – and nerve – to badger the servants into announcing him. Though he also knew how important his travels were and that he would have to prepare for it properly.

"Tell him that I have no time for…"

"Prowl!"

Too late. His obnoxiously cheerful and annoyingly overbearing cousin pushed the poor servant aside and swept into the room. Prowl refused to roll his optics outwardly and his doorwings remained stiffly neutral.

"Smokescreen, I must insist…"

"No, Prowl, I must insist that you stop working yourself into an early deactivation."

Smokescreen moved closer and leaned onto Prowl's desk with a flourish and a flick of his doorwings, facing his irate cousin with a small smirk.

"I must prepare…"

"Please, Prowl! You've emerged prepared. Looking at your data the dozenth time won't make you any more so."

"I must…"

"No, Prowl. I insist that you rest and relax before you go to Iacon. I know that you 'prepared' the last dark cycle and the previous one and… when did you last recharged?"

"It is not a problem. I know my limits, Smokescreen."

"I know them too and your servants don't lie to me. You need to relax and I know exactly how."

"What…?"

Prowl cursed himself for the stupid question, but Smokescreen surprised him. What was the mech planning now?

"Come on now, Prowl, don't be difficult."

Smokescreen caught a white arm and tried to pull Prowl away from his desk.

"But… Smokescreen, desist! Stop this… whatever it is!"

But the older Praxian was adamant and it would be highly improper from physically discourage his cousin from towing him towards… his berthroom? Prowl didn't feel tired, he was not lying when he said he hasn't reached his limits. But what did Smokescreen want really? _Tuck him in_? Prowl nearly snorted at the idea as he grudgingly stumbled after his still-too-cheerful cousin.

"Come on, Prowl, you'll like it."

"Like… what exactly, Smokescreen?"

His cousin finally let his arm go in order to grab the ornate doors of his berthchamber and turned his helm back mischievously as he pulled the doors fully open.

" **Him**."

Prowl automatically took a step towards the sight, he simply couldn't help himself. The gold gleamed even brighter under the clear lights, free of the arena filth, the splotches of energon and gore. The frame was even larger than he imagined, the sculpted lines straining to remain still. Prowl hardly noticed that he was pushed into the chamber, the door locked behind him and Smokescreen's _have fun!_ floating through the heavy door panels.

II.

Prowl was aware of other nobles occasionally ordering a gladiator they liked for a dark cycle's entertainment, but he never ever thought of indulging himself in such way. Considering the way the object of his desire – and he did admit to himself that there was a desire, it was just a very good question of how Smokescreen got whiff of its target, he wondered – stood there, proud anger, faint disgust and a lot of unease almost rolling off of him in waves and Prowl wasn't sure it was such a good idea. The gladiator stood taller than him by a helm and a half, massed far more and visibly was not enthralled by the idea of becoming a berth-toy for the Lord of Praxus.

Prowl slowly circled the softly gleaming golden frame, marvelling at the immaculate perfection of it. How could a lowly Pit fighter remain so… unblemished? Not a dent, not a scratch, just unblemished, perfect paint, waxed to a fine shine, covering a powerful and efficient – he saw so times just how efficient and deadly! – frame. The gladiator's power-plant was giving short, angry growls as he moved around him and those ice-cold cerulean optics, so similar to his own followed his movements, even as the frame remained still. Minute trembles shook only the fisted servos, but otherwise the gladiator was motionless. Prowl's own highly tuned racing engine was nearly purring with pleasure and his doorwings trembled minutely, something he'd never allow with witnesses.

"What the frag are you waiting for?!"

Prowl pulled up sharply, not used to any mech speaking to him this way. But of course gladiators weren't trained in etiquette, he conceded and he was willing to overlook it for the visual feast his optics and processor eagerly consumed still. Work was forgotten, Smokescreen was forgotten – after a note to reprimand him for being an insufferable knowitall and acting on it, even the Prime was forgotten in a hot expectation that started to warm his energon and pool under his panel.

"Are you in a hurry? I assume my cousin paid you for as long as I want to."

He caught the helplessly seething expression on those sculpted faceplates, such a sneer twisting them into a mask and some of the gathering charge suddenly drained away from him. His doorwings shot up as he considered the gladiator again. True, he'd interfaced with pleasurebots before and he had no compunction of doing so – it was legal, it was according to rules and contracts, so it was acceptable as well as satiating his frame's needs in a safe way. And gladiators often sold themselves for rich patrons to collect credits for their eventual freedom, so it shouldn't be that much different… should it?

"What's wrong?

"Nothing!" – but his whole frame expressed the very opposite of his words… everything.

"Do you not get paid for this… service?"

This time the gladiator outright bared his impressive dentae at him, though he still restrained his frame with some visible effort. Prowl pondered for a klik whether the mech would truly attack him and how long he could hold out before his guards neutralized a rampaging gladiator. The estimate wasn't very good, so he smoothly moved farther, leaving the turbulent field that contrasted so sharply with the soft, gleaming perfection of the frame.

"As if credits were everything!" – the surly voice held bitterness and barely restrained fury.

"What else would you expect?"

He was truly curious, trying to understand the complicated situation.

"You agreed to this, surely…?"

"I had to agree, if you wanna know!"

"You were coerced to consenting?"

Prowl frowned, his arousal gone completely cold, doorwings shooting up stiffly formal. Smokescreen knew he wasn't into _that_. He may have liked dominating and forceful interface, but never with an unwilling subject. Even slave gladiators had some rights… and the right to consent to interface freely was one of them. The golden mech's posture, his restrained anger, his barely in check rage came into a new light. It wasn't just the posturing of a powerful fighter, it wasn't just a show - it was real.

"Slaggers… yes, frag it all, but what does it matter to you?"

Prowl moved in front of him again, to be able to look into the hate-filled optics and see the real answers. It filled him with dread what the angrily spat sentence implied. It meant that this wasn't the first time it happened and the gladiator thought that Prowl knew that he didn't want the face… and didn't care.

"Because I care. It is my duty to care. What is your designation?"

Those oh-so-similar cerulean optics stared at him defiantly before he shrugged and answered. The tension and anger didn't leave but became resigned and smoldering under a forced façade.

"Sunstreaker." – he snarled and Prowl's doorwings jerked with the tone. It was something never before directed at him personally.

"So, Sunstreaker… tell me what _you_ want."

It was the first time that those optics lost the anger and became confused.

"You… aren't gonna… frag me?"

Prowl nodded his helm not in answer but because he didn't want to watch the hatred in those optics.

"Only if you want to. I don't interface with mechs who doesn't agree freely it - which obviously you haven't. Go now. I'm sure somemech will take you back where you came from."

Prowl sat down by his desk and pulled a datapad close. His stiff doorwings followed the first, hesitant step towards the door, the slow shift of hesitation and a field reaching out, confused but silently grateful and the rest of the steps too, slow and heavy, their weight making the delicate floorboards tremble until he got out of range… He would ignore the heat that collected under his panel every time he watched the gladiator… and he would ignore the lust that suffused his processor every time he saw him fight; the gladiator arenas were not under his jurisdiction, but he would follow this one one's career and remember his designation.

Megavorns and bitter experiences later a certain pair of unruly but deadly warriors were put under his authority as the SIC of the Autobot forces. And Prowl still watched avidly that deadly efficiency and dangerous beauty Sunstreaker exuded unconsciously even in the middle of the vicious battles with the Decepticons. He still admired the unblemished golden plating from afar and would not betray his worry when it was laid up in the medbay, torn and smeared with energon. It wouldn't be proper to approach him as his commanding officer. But the war too would end one orn, like the Pits.

Prowl hoped that it wouldn't be too late.


End file.
